


Louisiana lies between

by logicalcomplexity



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sexual Activity, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possessive Behavior, Sharing, Sledgefu Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalcomplexity/pseuds/logicalcomplexity
Summary: Sledge and Snafu have nothing in common, yet they clung to each other to survive the horrors of war. Burgin always wondered about the nature of their relationship. Afraid that what he would find would be incriminating, he never investigated.Now that their service is over, Burgin wants to know. Snafu misinterprets the question. Sledge reluctantly shares.





	Louisiana lies between

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I meant for this to be one of those innocent "watching them share from another person's POV" kind of things. Still don't know how it ended up as a threesome. Thanks again to OOOtOOOt and bearkare for beta-reading!
> 
> Warnings include unprotected oral and anal sex. Enjoy.

War meant not enough space, or food, or water, or clothes, or cigarettes, or ammunition, or anything anyone could possibly need to win the goddamn war. There weren’t even enough men. They all knew it, but they complained about the new boots anyways, hated having to share their hard-earned space and supplies.

“Can you believe?” Snafu retrieved his helmet and spat on the dirt floor of their bunk. “Boots thinkin’ they can come into our tent. Boy, they gotta earn their place.” 

The man growled meaner than anyone Burgin had ever met, although he only ever showed violence to their enemies.

Burgin picked on the boots too, but once the bullets started flying, strange men became brothers quickly. Still, Burgin was surprised at how fast Snafu changed his tune about Pvt. Eugene Sledge.

Unlike most enlisted men in their company, Sledge had turned down the opportunity to go through officer’s school—something about ‘not wanting to miss the war’—and you could practically see the money dripping off of him. A good Christian boy with a doctor for a father, a fancy family ring, and a pocket New Testament that he carried around and made notes in; Sledge was the antithesis of Snafu. Snafu didn’t seem to have an origin at all, kept tight lipped and mean-eyed about his home life. He could have been plucked straight off of one of these islands for all Burgin knew.

So Burgin found it funny, and rather fitting, to see the two men sticking close to each other in the Battle of Peleliu. He couldn’t tell which man was the light and which was the shadow. Common sense would say that it was Snafu who followed Sledge around, circling him, watching him like a hungry stray cat. But Burgin saw Sledge stop Snafu from getting his head shot off about as many times as Snafu saved Sledge. 

The pair shared rations and foxholes more often than the other men. Burgin couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Snafu had been his foxhole buddy in Gloucester, and sure, the man was irritable and lewd, but he could be trusted. Burgin missed Snafu; how he’d wake Burgin up for his turn on watch with a bony hand on his shoulder, silver eyes glinting in the darkness. 

When Burgin was promoted to a sergeant before Okinawa, the distance between him and Snafu seemed to grow. Snafu had an ingrained disdain for authority figures; he served Burgin a cold, suspicious stare for weeks, making snide remarks to Sledge all the while. But Burgin didn’t have it in him to be mad at either of them, especially not Sledge. 

Sledge was too nice, too well-mannered. Too kind, even though the war was wearing him down. Sledge and Snafu bickered over every little thing, taking their anger out on each other now that there were no enemies in sight. When Sledge got sick of it, he’d come and talk to Burgin. He asked questions about the family ranch, wanting to know about the animals, both domestic and wild. 

The conversations made Burgin feel oddly triumphant because, as far as he could tell, Sledge and Snafu didn’t talk about soft things like homesickness. They didn’t pray together or reminisce about family. They had absolutely nothing in common, and Burgin couldn’t understand why they clung to each other instead of him. 

Days away from shipping out to Okinawa, all three of them lazed in their tent. In the soft glow of the smoking lamps, Burgin read aloud one of his letters from Florence; the one where she talked about a camping trip that her family took, when her brother narrowly avoided getting kicked in the head by a kangaroo. Sledge wanted to know about the green, growing things in Australia. 

Sledge sat on his cot, trimming Snafu’s hair, as he listened. Not an unusual sight, by any means—Burgin had cleaned up Sledge’s hair cut less than an hour before—but something seemed different between them. Tense in a way that Burgin couldn’t put his finger on. 

Snafu leaned back against Sledge’s legs, shoulders squirming against his bony knees. He never could sit still. Sledge’s slim fingers dragged over his scalp, catching and tugging at his curls, pulling the strands straight before taking the scissors to them; Snafu sighed, eyes slipping closed, head tilting into the hand that Sledge had braced on his jaw. A pure animal response, the expression of a dog finally getting its ears scratched. 

And the look in Sledge’s eyes when he gazed down at Snafu, how he didn’t push Snafu away when he was finished, just let him sit there and enjoy the scalp massage—with a jolt, Burgin realized he’d seen a look like that before. In Florence’s eyes, brown irises warm and tender. Wanting. Welcoming. A startling thing to see in a gaze directed at another man.

Burgin didn’t want to think about why Sledge would be looking at Snafu like that. He kept his eye on them, but tried not dwell on it, attributing their mutual attachment to proximity and combat fatigue. 

In China, the things that Sledge and Snafu shared started to stand out. One night, as their company went out to the bars on a pass, Snafu stole a sip of Sledge’s beer. During a game of darts, Snafu leaned over Sledge’s shoulder to grab the bottle out of his hand, even though his own beer was on the table right next to Sledge. Sledge rolled his eyes and called Snafu an asshole, but he smiled a little. As Snafu returned Sledge’s beer, he offered a puff off his cigarette, ruffling a hand through Sledge’s auburn hair affectionately when he took it.

Burgin’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. They were in a land of plenty now. Sure, their bunks were still riddled with lice, but there was no reason to share food or cigarettes or even to offer comfort. It was a nice gesture for a man to offer some sweets to his squad if he received some in the mail but not expected. However, there appeared to be an unspoken agreement between Sledge and Snafu; instead of sharing less, like everyone else, they shared more. 

“Every year, I tell my aunt I can’t wear orange, but she  _ always _ sends me orange clothes,” Eugene groaned when they opened their Christmas mail in late January. “I mean, look at this. It’s the color of my hair.” 

He lifted a russet orange sweater out of the package his mother had sent him. The sweater itself was quite nice, looked well-made and warm, but the color didn’t suit Sledge at all.

“It’s not your hair,  _ cher _ .” Snafu, lounging on the cot behind Sledge, draped himself over Sledge’s shoulders and pinched his cheek. “It’s your pasty white ass.”

Blushing, Sledge elbowed Snafu in the ribs and tossed the sweater at him. “You’re such a jerk, Shelton—You have it then!”

That sweater made Burgin hyper-aware of everything they did. The spot of russet orange was a glaring beacon in the sea of green and khaki-clad men, always drawing Burgin’s gaze. 

Snafu liked to wear it during downtime, complaining that he was always cold. The sweater was a little big on him, fabric draping over his thin shoulders, and he tucked his nose into the collar as they played cards. The action made him appear childish and sweet. Burgin noticed that Sledge tended to do whatever Snafu wanted when he looked like that. Not that Burgin could really blame him. When Snafu fiddled with the sleeves of that orange sweater, big grey eyes blinking up at him, even Burgin couldn’t say ‘no’. 

Of course, Sledge had the good sense to huff and act put out when Snafu begged him for another one of his mother’s shortbread cookies. But as much as Sledge feigned annoyance, Burgin could tell that he  _ liked _ when Snafu wore the sweater, his gaze lingering on Snafu in a way that Burgin could only interpret as possessive. Burgin ignored the strange fluttering in his stomach that started up whenever he caught Sledge staring at Snafu like that. 

And then there were the looks—soft eyes, sly smiles, and suggestive winks that made the tips of Sledge’s ears turn red. And the touches—a hand on the nape of the neck or the small of the back, a brief bump of shoulders. Once Burgin walked into their quarters to find Snafu standing close in front of Sledge, holding him by the hips. Sledge backed away from Snafu as soon as he saw Burgin. He didn’t make an excuse for the action, instead asking loudly if it was time for chow, blushing because he knew that Burgin had seen.

At that moment, Burgin began to suspect that their sharing was more intimate than brotherly. The thought quivered in his gut, his chest tight and tingly, but he never confirmed his suspicions. He never wanted to look hard enough, hating the idea of discharging them both with a blue slip. Besides, it was probably a phase; the affection cultivated by too many near-death experiences and nights spent with heads bent close, praying to stay alive until the morning. A connection like that could have formed between any two men. 

Burgin didn’t dwell on it.

When he got off the train in Texas, he was determined to live the life that he fought so hard to have. It felt good to be back on the ranch again, riding out alongside his father’s cattle, squinting up at the endless blue sky. But he had an unshakable feeling that something was missing; he’d lost something out in the Pacific. Some sensitivity deep in his soul, the gentleness in his hands.

His younger brother cried when they branded the new calves that spring. Burgin couldn’t empathize with his sadness, even though he knew he’d done the same when he was first taught how to do it. It was like the war had beaten all the compassion out of him, and when the smell of burning hair and flesh reached his nose, Burgin felt nothing at all.  

He wrote to Florence every two weeks, because that’s how long it took for her to respond to his letters. He waited eagerly, rereading old letters to pass the time. 

She had lovely handwriting, words leaning slightly to the right. Burgin found it endearing that her ‘a’s and ‘o’s were nearly indistinguishable. She was straightforward, always answering Burgin’s questions before introducing new topics into their conversation. 

They talked about their lives—the people in them, the way that things had or hadn’t changed. Burgin worried that he couldn’t adjust to the aimlessness of civilian life. Florence assured him that he had time to find his path, that there was no shame in wandering lost in the wilderness. Her words reminded him that there was still good in the world, if he took the time to see it. 

Florence was half the world away, but despite the distance, she had a presence that soothed his soul. He remembered when he met her, as he sought solace in her father’s church. Her soft brown hair shining amber in the diffusive light that streamed through the stained-glass windows. How she had walked up to him without hesitation, asking if he wanted to talk to the preacher. She was level-headed and innocent, and while all the other men on shore leave ran about Melbourne seeking easy women, Burgin found himself drawn to her. In the midst of uncertainty, he craved stability, and he could tell from her kind, brown eyes that she was loyal and caring. 

Early in the summer, he asked for her to marry him, sure that he would feel better if she were here. Two weeks passed by without her reply, and Burgin began to worry.

Anxiety was a familiar emotion—as close a friend to him as any Marine. Normally, he could stand the low-level hum, the unjustifiable way that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. But then the nerves got so bad, they started interfering with his work. Animals could pick up on fear, and the cattle and horses skittered away from his touch.

Four weeks later, and still no reply from Florence. Burgin’s gelding bucked him that Monday morning, as he and his father turned the herd out to pasture. Burgin wasn’t hurt, merely winded, and the horse bolted like the devil was chasing him.

“Maybe you should take it easy for a few days,” his father suggested when he brought the gelding back, tossing the reins to Burgin.

The horse shied again, wouldn’t let Burgin anywhere near the saddle. “I’m fine.”

“Take a vacation, go fishin’ or somethin’. You’re no use ‘round here, spookin’ the animals. We’re lucky the cattle didn’t stampede.”

Burgin hesitated to take time for himself. Sitting alone with his thoughts was the last thing he wanted, and there was so much to do around the ranch. As he sifted through his mail that evening, futilely hoping that Florence’s address would appear on one of the envelopes, his hands stilled over a letter from Auburn, Alabama.

Burgin had kept in touch with a few of his fellow Marines—De L’Eau, Leyden, and Sledge. Their correspondence was irregular, but he was always happy to hear from them. He had made sure to get all of their addresses before leaving Camp Pendleton. He even asked Snafu for his, but his request was met with a sneer.

As he opened Sledge’s letter, Burgin wondered if Snafu kept in touch with Sledge at the very least. Burgin knew that they must have gone back to their respective homes, but he struggled to imagine one without the other.

Sledge had impeccable penmanship, cursive letters neat, the words well-spaced. He was writing to let Burgin know about his change in address. He had taken advantage of the GI Bill and enrolled at Alabama Polytechnic Institute. He wished Burgin well. There was a smudge of blue ink on the bottom right corner of the letter. A smeared thumbprint, like Sledge had tried to wipe it away.

Burgin placed his own thumb over the mark, a longing welling up in his chest, strange and sudden.

Impulsively, Burgin wrote Sledge back, asking if he’d be interested in meeting up with him next weekend. He made up an excuse for traveling to Alabama, something vague about a distant relative.

Sledge’s response arrived the following week, letting him know that he’d be glad to catch up with him. He gave Burgin a very specific location, date, and time: a bar called the Red Wheelbarrow, Saturday at 7pm.

Burgin thought it was odd, but he didn’t want to put Sledge out—maybe school kept him really busy—and so, when the day came, he lounged on the front patio of the Red Wheelbarrow until Sledge showed up. If anything, the peculiarity of Sledge’s request helped keep Burgin’s mind off of Florence during the long train ride over.

At 7pm sharp, Sledge drove up to the bar in a beat-up old Ford. He wasn’t alone.

Burgin’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight of Snafu, wearing dirty blue jeans and a wrinkled white tee shirt. He stretched lazily after stepping out of the car, looking for all the world like a teenage greaser; silver eyes, bronze skin, and a wicked grin. Sledge appeared exceptionally preppy in comparison; green gingham button-up immaculate, khaki trousers neatly ironed, red hair like fire in the setting sun.

Burgin supposed that opposites attracted, after all.

“Well, well,” Snafu slinked up to Burgin, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you this far east.”

“You absolute bastard!” Burgin shot back with a smile. He stood up and pulled Snafu into a tight hug. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Sledge caught Burgin’s gaze and winked at him behind Snafu’s back. “Snafu’s a traveling man now. You’re lucky you came when you did.”

“How come you kept in touch with Sledge but not me?” Burgin groused, shoving Snafu away playfully in order to hug Sledge next.

Snafu just shrugged, staring down at the pavement.

“He doesn’t,” Sledge answered for him, smiling thinly. “He comes and goes as he pleases.” 

A few beers and cigarettes later, Burgin began to piece it all together. Sledge and Snafu thought they were being sneaky about it, but Burgin could still see the bond between them. He doubted that they had parted ways since the war. 

They weren’t attached at the hip like they had been for most of their service—seemed to have grown out of that honeymoon phase—maintaining a polite distance. They alternated who bought drinks, and Sledge seemed to be the keeper of Snafu’s cigarettes and lighter, chiding him when he asked for a smoke twice in one hour.

As they sat there, drinking and talking, Burgin felt like they’d been transported back in time. They didn’t talk about the war, focused instead on what Sledge and Burgin had gotten up to in the months since they last saw each other. Like always, Burgin tried to make Snafu talk about himself. But he grinned and dodged the questions, going off about some tall tale that he’d heard second-hand.

When night fell, they moved to a table inside the bar to escape the mosquitoes. Snafu went to the bathroom, hand squeezing Sledge’s elbow as he walked past. Burgin fixated on that absent-minded touch, pulse pounding with the sudden desire to know.

“You still writing to Florence?” Sledge crossed his arms on the table, fingers rubbing where Snafu had touched him.

“Yeah.” Burgin took a long draught of his beer. Silence stretched between them, and Burgin realized that Sledge was waiting for him to say more. “She’s doin’ good.”

“You worked up the nerve to ask her yet?”

Back in China, all Burgin could think of was marrying Florence. Now that he’d asked, now that she hadn’t replied, he just wasn’t sure anymore.

Tongue loosened from the alcohol and desperate to change the subject, Burgin tossed a rather unfair question at Sledge. “What about you? You got a girl yet?”

Sledge blushed, scratching at the back of his neck nervously. “Uh, sort of…” His eyes darted to the side, and Burgin followed his gaze to find that Snafu had come out of the bathroom. “Met her in my biology class. Haven’t asked her out or anything though. I’m shy around girls.”

Snafu stopped at the bar on his way back over. He leaned on the counter as he chatted with the bartender, hips cocked, highlighting his narrow waist. When Burgin turned his attention back to Sledge, he could practically see the lies dripping off of him. His ears were bright red with shame.

The late hour and pleasant buzz made Burgin brave enough to lean forward and whisper: “Can I ask you somethin’ in private?”

Sledge stiffened but nodded. “I suppose.”

“I think it might be best to leave. Go back to your place.”

“Just so you know…” Sledge glanced furtively over at Snafu. “Snafu has been staying with me.”

“That’s fine, I wanna ask him, too.”

Snafu came back to their table bearing three shots of whiskey. He arched a brow at the somber mood that had settled between Sledge and Burgin, passing them each a shot glass. “Somebody die while I was gone?”

Sledge smiled thinly, jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth. “Just thinking about a nightcap back at my place.”

“We leavin’ already? Ain’t even last call.” Snafu pouted. He’d switched to whiskey a few rounds back, while Sledge and Burgin had stuck to beer, and inebriation made him distinctly childish.

“Burgin wants to talk in private,” Sledge replied tersely, picking up his glass of whiskey. His hand trembled a little. “ _ Semper fi _ ?”

Sledge held the shot out towards Burgin, his brown eyes fearful and pleading.

Burgin licked his lips, grabbing his own glass and clinking it against Sledge’s resolutely. “ _ Semper fi _ .”

—

If Burgin had any doubts about their relationship at the bar, they were erased once they piled into Sledge’s car.

From the backseat, Burgin could tell that Snafu had all but forgotten about him. He kept trying to cuddle up to Sledge as he drove, whining when Sledge held him at arm’s length.

“Fuck, boo, why you so stingy?”

“Cut it out,” Sledge snapped, voice strained with anxiety.

Burgin took pity on him and grabbed Snafu’s shoulder to get his attention. “Hey, Snaf’, when’d you become such a lightweight?”

Snafu snorted, hand coming to rest over Burgin’s. “Ain’t a lightweight. ‘M tired, I was up early, that’s all.”   

“Oh? Did ya drive in this mornin’ from somewhere far?”

“No.” Snafu tipped his head back on the seat, the strong lines of his facial profile flickering, as the streetlamps whizzed by.

“He drove in yesterday,” Sledge clarified.  

The more Sledge tried to hide it, the more convinced Burgin became that Sledge and Snafu were  _ together _ .

When Sledge pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex, the tension between them was suffocating. Sledge led the way to the apartment, frowning worriedly as he held the door open to let Burgin inside.

It was a tidy little studio. The kitchenette, complete with a tiny round table and two chairs, was next to the bathroom. A small desk had been shoved into a corner in front of a tall bookshelf, as most of the space was taken up by the queen sized bed and matching dresser. There was little in the way of living room furniture, just a solitary armchair by the window.

Burgin sat down in the armchair and watched Sledge pace the length of the room nervously. Snafu toed his shoes off and laid on his side on the bed, propped up on one elbow.

“So, what’s this about?” Of the three of them, Snafu was the drunkest, blinking slowly as he looked between Burgin and Sledge.

Burgin didn’t know how best to say it; couldn’t even fathom why he was so obsessed with the information. He just had this deep desire to understand. “Are you two…is…Snafu, why’re you really here?”

Snafu frowned, like the answer was obvious. “Gene’s here.”

Sledge’s gaze, previously fixed on the floor, snapped to Snafu. He stilled, mouth agape. Astonished, perhaps, because Snafu had spilled a secret.

“He doesn’t mean it like that, I told you, he travels for work and when he’s here, he—"

Hearing the panic in Sledge’s voice, Burgin held his hand up to cut him off. He imagined that they had learned the hard way that they had to be discrete. “It’s alright, Gene. I won’t hold it against you two. I think I knew back in the Pacific. I ignored it then, I can ignore it now. I just wanted to ask.”

Sledge’s face drained of color despite Burgin’s assurance. Snafu sprawled on his back, giggling.

“Wanna ask what?” Snafu asked, breathless with laughter. “Which one of us takes it up the ass?”

“Christ, Shelton, shut up for once in your life.” Sledge hid his face in his hands and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Burgin’s face heated at Snafu’s vulgar question. His brain felt scrambled, because on some level he imagined—no, he assumed that any physical intimacy between them was chaste, that Sledge’s puritanical upbringing tempered Snafu’s lewdness. To think that they knew each other’s bodies  _ intimately _ ...And, now that the image was there, Burgin was curious, even though he shouldn’t be. His stomach knotted up when Snafu tilted his head to grin at him wolfishly.

“Is that what you wanna know?” Snafu goaded, ignoring Sledge’s demand. In Burgin’s memories, Snafu’s eyes were gray, washed out by the harsh tropical sun. In the gloom of this studio apartment, they were mercurial; shifting green-blue-gray, heavy-lidded and teasing. Suddenly, Burgin understood why Sledge liked him so much. “Wanna know how much I love Gene’s—”

Sledge turned, quick as a whip, and tackled Snafu, muffling him with a hand over his mouth. “Alright, that’s enough.” Snafu squirmed in Sledge’s arms, opened his mouth to lick at his hand. Sledge didn’t seem phased, just hung on and fixed Burgin with a hard stare. “Are we done here?”

Burgin was frozen. He’d gotten what he wanted, and he should definitely leave, call a cab, and stay at a hotel in town. But the way Snafu smirked from behind Sledge’s fingers, lips glimmering with saliva, had him feeling all sorts of confused. Then Snafu  _ licked _ Sledge’s ring finger, curling his tongue around the digit and sucking it into his mouth, and Burgin felt all the blood in his body rush south.

Sledge noticed, pulling his hand away, but he didn’t release Snafu from the headlock that he had him in. Burgin and Sledge stared at each other. Burgin crossed his legs to hide his growing erection. He couldn’t speak, mouth too dry.

Slowly, Sledge let go of Snafu, offering a hand to pull him up. Then he kissed him, one hand gripping hard at the nape of his neck. Snafu leaned in eagerly, hands cupping Sledge’s face. Burgin thought he saw a flash of tongue, before Sledge yanked Snafu back roughly, making him whimper. 

“That a good enough answer for you?” Sledge’s eyes were hard and cold, like he was staring down a Jap.

Now,  _ now  _ was when Burgin should leave, but his muscles were paralyzed. He’d had a few dreams, when he was younger or maybe even during the war, of a similar scenario where two women kissed and caressed each other while he watched. That fantasy excited him, and the feeling shouldn’t translate because these were men he had served with, his brothers in arms…but it did. Arousal burned in his chest, hotter than he’d ever felt before.

Snafu didn’t help the situation, eyeing Burgin coquettishly. If Burgin thought that Snafu was a mystery before, then he was an alien now. An entity, Snafu had leapt out of the sea and pretended to be human. Snafu straddled Sledge’s lap, all semblance of appropriate etiquette forgotten. “Think Burgin wants to watch.”

Sledge shoved Snafu away so hard that he bounced off the bed and onto the floor. “Fuck no.”

Snafu rolled with the motion, righting himself on his hands and knees with feline grace. As he knelt there, Burgin realized with a jolt that he was quite close. Snafu knew it too, tossed his head back to waggle his eyebrows at Burgin, eyes opalescent in the gloom. “Or maybe, you want Gene to share.”

In a blink, Sledge was off the bed and standing between them. Burgin stood up, too; he needed to leave before he did something he would regret. They collided, gripping each other by the elbows to keep from toppling over. The movement brought their faces together, cheek to cheek, closer than Burgin had been to a man since the war. Tension pulsed between them, a living thing that breathed with them.

They may have stood like that for a second or an hour, Burgin didn’t know. At some point, Snafu got up from the floor, plastered himself to Sledge’s back, and whispered in his ear loud enough that Burgin could hear. “Don’t be jealous, boo. I bet Burgie wants a piece of you, too.”

All coherent thought fell out of Burgin’s head. He placed a trembling hand on Sledge’s shoulder, watching Snafu smile against the side of Sledge’s neck as he did so. Sledge still wore a skeptical expression, but when Burgin leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t move away.

The first brush of lips was chaste, tentative like a teenager’s first kiss. Burgin could feel Sledge’s nerves—his fear of being found out, of his whole life falling apart in one careless instant—but Burgin would never tell a soul about what happened tonight. He tried to convey that, to kiss Sledge with conviction. As confusing as this whole experience was, he did want it. Perhaps he had only watched them so closely because he was jealous, longing for them to include him in their secrets.

Kissing Sledge was strange compared to kissing a woman, but pleasant; his lips soft, his large nose pressing into Burgin’s cheek, his chin slightly stubbly. The worst part was how stiff Sledge remained. Burgin drew back, finally finding his voice. “Will you share?”

Maybe Sledge had been waiting this whole time for some form of consent from Burgin, his body relaxing in the wake of the question. “Alright.” Then Sledge stepped to the side and around Snafu, pushing him forward.

Burgin felt hesitant, Sledge’s possessiveness as tangible as the sexual tension in the air. But Snafu, immune to the tense atmosphere, looped his arms around Burgin’s neck and pulled him into an enthusiastic kiss. Burgin could taste the liquor on Snafu’s tongue, shivered as Snafu moved closer, plump mouth open and wanting, more eager and domineering than any woman Burgin had ever been with. He wondered—one hand gripping tight onto Sledge’s shoulder, the other resting tentatively on Snafu’s waist—if their intimacy was always this intense.

Snafu’s weight shifted, leaning on Burgin so heavily that he lost his balance, wobbling. Sledge kept them all upright, then hauled Snafu back towards the bed, arms hooked beneath his armpits. Burgin trailed after them, confused. Had Sledge changed his mind?

“Sorry.” Sledge nuzzled the side of Snafu’s head. He still seemed uncertain, eying Burgin like he thought he was about to take something away from him. “Mer’s a bit of a slut when he’s drunk.”

Snafu snorted a laugh, reaching behind him to fist a hand in Sledge’s hair. He ground his hips back against Sledge, causing Sledge’s eyes to flutter and fall close. “Ain’t I ever. I’ve always wanted to try two at once.”

Burgin felt bewitched, walking up to the couple and herding them until the back of Sledge’s knees bumped the bed. Sledge sat down, taking Snafu with him. Burgin stepped between their spread thighs, heart beating wildly as he took Sledge’s head in his hands. Burgin wanted to kiss him again, to reassure him.

This time, Sledge blossomed under him. Unlike Snafu, Sledge was surprisingly submissive and followed Burgin’s lead. They kissed gently, and Burgin tingled all over, affection surging through him. Guilt ached low in his belly, but then Snafu started unbuttoning his shirt, and he forgot all about it.

Snafu and Sledge were a dizzying combination. Snafu moved urgently, exposing Burgin’s chest and planting open mouthed kisses on him, careful not to bruise. Sledge undressed Snafu at the same time, movements deliberate, observing Burgin’s reactions with dark eyes. He alternated between nipping teasingly at Burgin’s lips and biting roughly at the back of Snafu’s neck and shoulders. He left marks—little red smudges over Snafu’s bronze skin—like he wanted to remind Burgin that Snafu belonged to him.

As if Burgin could forget. Sledge kept an arm around Snafu’s waist; keeping him pinned to his lap, back pressed to Sledge’s front. Even when Snafu bucked, trying to stand up so he could kiss Burgin, Sledge didn’t let him go.

“You wanna know how this works, Burgie?” Sledge fiddled with Snafu’s zipper, palm pressed against the outline of Snafu’s erection.  Burgin nodded, desire mounting as Snafu smirked against the skin of his belly. “There’s Vaseline in one of the desk drawers.”

Stomach swooping, Burgin stepped away to rifle through the desk. His hands shook, his own cock straining in his jeans. When he finally found the Vaseline, he turned back to find both of them fully naked, Snafu on his knees on the floor in front of Sledge, head bobbing in Sledge’s lap. The sight knocked all the wind out of him; Snafu’s broad hands clutching at Sledge’s pale thighs, his spit-shiny lips stretching around Sledge’s thick cock. To top it off, Sledge petted Snafu’s hair and glared at Burgin, daring him to say something.

But Burgin didn’t have any words for the situation, wasn’t even sure if what was happening right now was real, blurred as it was by alcohol. He could be in another dimension for all he knew. Once the initial shock had passed, he returned to them and pressed the tube of Vaseline into Sledge’s waiting hand, ears burning at the wet sound of Snafu sucking Sledge’s cock. Then he pulled down his pants and underwear, kicking them off his ankles, and climbed onto the bed behind Sledge.

How could he make Sledge understand that this wasn’t about Snafu, but about them? For a long time, Burgin had been unable to think of one man without the other. They were a unit, and he wouldn’t dream of trying to force them apart. All he wanted was a little taste.

Adoringly, Burgin ran his hands along Sledge’s sides, from his hips to his rib cage. He paused there, felt Sledge’s breath hitch under his palms, and dropped kisses along his spine. His skin was soft and smooth, covered with light brown freckles.

“Show me,” Burgin whispered into the back of Sledge’s neck.

Languidly, Sledge tugged on Snafu’s hair, pulling him off his cock. Licking his lips, mouth glistening red, Snafu climbed onto Sledge’s lap to kiss him. Burgin found Sledge’s easy acceptance of the kiss a bit shocking, considering where Snafu’s mouth had been. But Sledge seemed to like it, yielding to Snafu for a little while before pushing him off with a hand on the center of his scrawny chest. Shifting onto his knees, Sledge moved to the center of the bed, nudging Burgin towards the headboard, and grabbed Snafu by his slender waist to roll him onto his stomach.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Snafu purred, facing the foot of the bed, sinuously positioning himself on his elbows and knees, ass high in the air. Sledge’s hands slid from his waist to his ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh.

“You’re such a brat,” Sledge grumbled fondly. Burgin couldn’t see his face, but he imagined Sledge was rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I’m lettin’ you fuck me, I’m allowed to be a brat.”

Sledge let go of Snafu to grab the lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. He glanced back over his shoulder at Burgin. “Can you believe this guy? Like he’s doing me a favor.”

Burgin chuckled, the tension bleeding out of the room somehow. He should be scared of whatever they were about to do, but he found the easy comradery with which they joked relaxing. “I don’t recall Snafu as bein’ particularly patient.”

“No, he’s not,” Sledge sighed with a tender smile, turning his attention back to Snafu, who wriggled excitedly in front of him.

Truthfully, Burgin had never given much thought to how or why homosexuals did things. As he watched Sledge stretch Snafu open, he felt closer to understanding the sexual deviancy, and he could see their love in the actions. Sledge started out slow, stroked the pads of his fingers gently over Snafu’s hole before pressing one in. Snafu groaned, guttural and distinctly pleased, hips moving back towards Sledge’s hand. Another finger and Sledge kissed the nape of Snafu’s neck, the tendons in his wrist flexing as he twisted and scissored his fingers. Snafu swore, fisting his hands in the bedspread and pressing his forehead against them, his erection straining towards his stomach.

“Burgin, come here,” Snafu gasped, back arching under Sledge’s ministrations. “Lemme suck your cock.”

The request zinged like lightning up Burgin’s spine. He looked to Sledge for permission, who nodded shortly, before coming around to the foot of the bed. He knelt close to Snafu’s head and ran a hand through his hair tentatively. The texture of Snafu’s curls was coarser than he expected, Burgin’s fingers snagging in a tangle when he tried to comb them through.

Snafu looked up at him, grinning hungrily, and got up onto his hands. He beckoned for Burgin to get closer. “Here, so I can lean over ya.”

Burgin kept his eyes on Sledge as he shuffled forward to kneel so that Snafu’s head was hovering over his lap. Sledge smiled encouragingly, a pink flush creeping from his cheeks down his neck. When Burgin had settled between Snafu’s arms, Sledge stroked his free hand along Snafu’s back lovingly.

“You’re in for a real treat,” Sledge remarked, brown eyes gone hazy with lust.

When Snafu put his mouth on him, dropping down to his elbows again, Burgin could hardly breathe, all his muscles tensing from the slick heat. Blow jobs weren’t a new concept to Burgin, but there was something to be said about having a man go down on you. Snafu knew what to do; tongue rolling over all Burgin’s sensitive spots as he took him deep with every bob of his head. His throat tightened around the head, his lips soft and slippery along the shaft. And he kept moaning, the reverberations a novel and exciting sensation.

Meanwhile, Sledge held Burgin’s gaze as he worked his fingers into Snafu’s ass. 

“There’s a little bundle of nerves back here,” Sledge explained, smirking devilishly as Snafu shivered between them. “So, if you’ve been thinking that sodomy is painful, it’s not really. Just stroke those nerves—”

Snafu paused his rhythm to moan particularly loud.

Between Sledge’s salacious words and Snafu’s sinful mouth, Burgin could feel himself coming apart quickly, balls drawing up tight in preparation for release. But then Snafu pulled off, panting into Burgin’s lap and growling at Sledge, “You done teasin’ yet?”

“I dunno, I don’t want Burgin to choke you,” Sledge replied, but he readjusted his position behind Snafu. Hand slipping free, Sledge grabbed Snafu’s waist, sitting up on his knees to grind his cock against him.

Snafu huffed, rubbing his cheek against Burgin’s thigh. “Then don’t be so rough. I wanna suck him off while you fuck me.”

The mental image alone made Burgin’s cheeks burn. He didn’t think he had enough blood in his body to sustain both his embarrassed blush and his erection. He felt light-headed already from the muggy air and the sharp tang of human sweat. And then there was the both of them. Their eyes blown black with desire, gazes prickling his skin, like they were waiting for him. 

He nodded unsteadily. “Sounds good to me.”

Snafu shifted from his elbows to his hands again, smirking slyly. “How ‘bout you go on in, Gene. Burgie and I will work somethin’ out.”

Burgin watched Snafu’s face as Sledge pushed into him, noting how his breath hitched, his mouth dropping open with a groan. Burgin threaded his fingers through Snafu’s dark curls, thumbs smearing the beads of sweat at his temples. Then he glanced up at Sledge, at his pink lips and dark eyes.

“Feels like heaven,” Sledge panted, hips pulling back slowly before thrusting forward. Snafu whimpered breathily at the motion. “So hot and tight.”

For a moment, all Burgin could do was cradle Snafu’s face in his hands and stare at Sledge. His pale hands contrasted with the bronze skin of Snafu’s waist. His abdominal muscles flexed as he rutted into him. His strong chin jutted in defiance. Burgin was paralyzed with wanting.  

Snafu recaptured Burgin’s attention by brushing his plush lips against his palm. “Fuck my mouth,” he murmured pleadingly.

Burgin moved as though he were in a dream. His heart, beating thunderously in his ears, muffled the slick sound of Sledge’s thrusting, drowned out the sloppy noise of his own cock plunging in and out of Snafu’s throat. He could feel Snafu trembling, absorbing the force of them both without complaint. Of the three of them, Snafu had always been the strongest.

Orgasm rushed through Burgin quickly. He felt it coming and pulled out of Snafu’s mouth, release spurting over his chin and neck.

“Shit, sorry,” Burgin gasped. Most women didn’t like getting cum on their face. He doubted Snafu would appreciate it either.

But Snafu laughed: “I don’t mind.”

“Did you come all over his face?” Sledge asked, sounding excited. He pulled out as well, slapping Snafu’s ass lightly.

“No,” Snafu answered for Burgin with a chuckle. He sat down and turned over, spreading his legs so Sledge could settle between them. “Got myself a pretty necklace, though.”

As Sledge entered Snafu again, Burgin realized that he was no longer a participant but a voyeur.

Sledge kissed Snafu fervently. He licked the cum from his skin, hands fisting in his hair. Snafu reveled in it, legs wrapped tightly around Sledge’s slim waist, fingers digging into his pale, freckled back. The emotion between them was palpable—a fierce, protective love that could withstand bullets and bombs and societal condemnation.

Instead of being envious of their intimacy, Burgin felt immensely sad. He closed his eyes and listened to their passion. Snafu’s soft whine of “Gene” when he came, and Sledge’s promise that Merriell was his “one and only”. They treated each other with such tenderness and respect; more loving than Burgin had ever seen. The injustice of the world burned a hole in Burgin’s heart. 

He turned away, sitting with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed, as Sledge finished.

“Everything alright?”

Burgin glanced back at the concern in Sledge’s voice. Sledge stood next to the bed, looking utterly debauched; Snafu’s cum spattered over his chest and stomach, red hair mussed from greedy fingers grabbing at it. Snafu lay curled on his side, already fast asleep.

“Yeah, just thinkin’.” He wasn’t having a crisis of conscious. He should be, considering he had just cheated on Florence, but the tragedy of Sledge and Snafu’s love seemed to overwhelm all of his sensibilities. “I’ll be out of your hair in a second.”

“No, it’s—I’m not trying to force you out or anything,” Sledge sputtered. “Just let me clean up a bit.”

“Okay.”

Burgin still wanted to talk to Sledge. He redressed as he waited and then settled down in that solitary armchair. Sledge went to the bathroom, coming out clean and bearing a damp washcloth. He wiped Snafu down gently, shushing him back to sleep when he startled. There was an odd sense of domesticity to the scene, a sweetness underlying it despite the crudeness that had come before.

“You gonna stop lyin’ to me now, Sledge?”

Burgin expected Sledge to tense at the question, but his posture remained relaxed. “Depends on the question.”

“You and Snafu…you live together, don’t you?”

Sledge nodded.

“You take care of him a lot?” Burgin lit a pair of cigarettes.

Sledge dug through the dresser for pajama pants, shrugging. “We take care of each other.”

“So, he keeps you outta trouble?”

Sledge snorted, lips twitching into a smile as he pulled the pants on. Burgin smiled back triumphantly. “Alright, maybe I do clean up after him a fair bit. But he’s worth it.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Burgin offered Sledge one of the cigarettes. He took it with a grateful nod. “You know I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Florence?”

“Not a soul. You two mean a lot to me, and I’m not gonna ruin you, even if it weighs on my conscious.” Burgin paused to take a drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke warm his lungs. “I did ask her to marry me. Almost six weeks ago now and she still hasn’t replied.”

“Doesn’t mean she’ll say no,” Sledge suggested with a kind smile.

“I know,” Burgin rolled his cigarette between his fingers, eyes fixed on the cherry. “But it doesn’t feel good to wait. And it’s kind of funny, because I feel worse over the fact that you two gotta hide than the fact that I cheated.”

“That is funny,” Sledge agreed, glancing over at Snafu with a faraway expression. 

Burgin didn’t doubt that Sledge dreamed about growing old with him, settling down somewhere safe.

“I feel like I should explain myself—I didn’t come back here to…do what we did. I just wanted to ask if you loved each other.”

Sledge tilted his head, gazing down at Burgin. 

“I love him.” There was a conviction to his words that Burgin had seldom heard from anyone. “Do you regret what we did?”

Burgin shook his head urgently. Maybe one day he would look back and question why he did it, but right now he felt at peace. “I wasn’t expectin’ it, but I liked it. Did you?”

“You know, Mer’d been bugging me for a while to try something new in the bedroom. Not a threesome specifically, but he’s mentioned liking the kinds of things that we did tonight.” Sledge chewed his bottom lip, then sighed heavily.

“I’m glad it was you, but I’ll be honest…” His eyes glittered in the low light, expression unreadable. “I don’t like sharing.”


End file.
